


Square Pegs

by thedeathchamber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeathchamber/pseuds/thedeathchamber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> “You’re my brother. You don’t have to be convenient.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square Pegs

_He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal._  
       -Gregg Levoy  


* * *

  
  
It came at a very early age for Sherlock, the realisation that life was, essentially, quite dull. It came on him without warning; one day, what had once seemed like so much became too little and simply not enough. The effortless enthusiasm for life was gone. 

His games of make-believe seemed pointless and much too contrived to be any fun, and the stories that had once held him spell bound became insufferable in their banality. 

“He’s finally growing up.” 

His father declared, and Sherlock, coming to the conclusion that being an adult was both unbearably boring and endlessly frustrating, did his best to prove him wrong. 

After five phone calls, two visits from the family physician, and an angry resignation from the housekeeper, Sherlock’s mother suggested he might take up an instrument.

Sherlock didn’t like the piano. _Sit still._ He liked his tutor even less. _The black keys don’t concern you right now, stop fidgeting._ In the end, the classes were discontinued due to his ‘patent immaturity’. Sherlock expected he should have felt triumphant, but his mother’s disappointment (there were tears) and his father’s vexation (there was shouting) only made him feel inadequate. After all, Mycroft, at twelve, played the violoncello and the oboe, and he’d never been quite so troublesome. 

It wasn’t until a few weeks later when Sherlock, in a fit of pique, snapped Mycroft’s bow, that his mother offered to sign him up for horseback riding. It kept him entertained for some time, though he wasn’t allowed to ride as fast as he wanted to and his instructor’s endless safety lectures bored him beyond words. As it was, Sherlock didn’t find the horses interesting so much as what they told about the people who looked after them. He’d always had a keen eye for detail and trying to work out the reasons behind the things he noticed amused him. 

However, this soon won him the enmity of the stable hands, when he carelessly mentioned how Paul had a habit of smoking in the stables, David frequently missed work because he was hungover, and Phil regularly had his girlfriend over for free lessons.

“I just don’t know what to do with you, Sherlock.”

His mother sighed, but Mycroft only smiled when he heard about Sherlock’s inadvertent indiscretions. 

A few days later, he approached Sherlock with a proposition. 

“A _treasure hunt_?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

“Of a sort.” Mycroft confirmed.

“I’m hardly a child anymore, Mycroft.” Sherlock said with dignity, “I’m also busy.”

Mycroft watched him impassively for a long moment, while Sherlock tinkered with the different cups and jars before him.

“Beatrice will not appreciate the mess you’re making.” he commented finally.

“It’s not a mess. It’s _science_.” Sherlock protested.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Very well. Come see me when you’ve grown bored of your little game.”

“I’m not _playing_!” Sherlock insisted shrilly.

“Oh? Only it sounds like a convenient excuse.”

“Excuse for what?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “What are you saying, Mycroft?”

“Nothing.” he replied calmly. “Perhaps you’re right and it would be too difficult for you to solve.” Mycroft continued, after giving Sherlock a quick assessing look. 

“I never said I couldn’t solve it. I said I didn’t _want_ to.” Sherlock put the cup down so hard that the pungent mixture sloshed and spilled over the counter. “I can do it!”

“Let us see.” Mycroft said as he handed him his instructions.

Less than two hours later, Sherlock barged into the study, dry leaves caught in his hair and a smudge of dirt on his nose. 

“I don’t recall there being any need to get quite so filthy.” Mycroft remarked when he looked up from his book and caught sight of Sherlock.

“That wasn’t difficult at all.” Sherlock complained.

Mycroft simply held out his hand. “Where is it then?”

Sherlock dug into his pocket and dropped a dirty, heavy iron key on Mycroft’s schoolwork without compunction.

“What’s this?” Mycroft asked impassively. 

“The key.” Sherlock replied, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice.

“And where’s the coffer?”

Sherlock stared at his brother unblinkingly, as though trying to ascertain whether he was being tricked or not.

“I thought you had it.” he said eventually.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and smiled placidly at Sherlock. “You missed something, little brother.”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. He stared unseeing at the window for several minutes, while Mycroft went back to his reading.

“ _Oh._ ” he gasped all of a sudden, clapping his hands together in sudden understanding. His face broke into a grin and he jumped in place excitedly. “Oh, oh, that’s good, Mycroft!” 

Mycroft was unable to hold back a smile. “Tell me.”

                                                                                                               ~ ~ ~

“Sherlock, dear, have you thought about what you’d like to do for your birthday this year?”

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. He stared intently at the jigsaw box cover for a few more seconds before handing it to his brother who quickly put it away. Straightaway, he began fitting together pieces at great speed.

“Sherlock?” his mother prompted.

“You said we could go to the National Meteorological Library.” he said, without lifting his eyes from the puzzle. 

“If that’s what you want.” she said carefully.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied shortly.

Helena cast a questioning glance at her older son. “What is it this time, Mycroft? I can’t seem to keep up. It was botany only a few weeks ago.”

“I had my Geography exam last week.” Mycroft explained, “He was curious about the maps, so we’ve been reading about cartography.”

“It’s interesting.” Sherlock agreed vaguely.

“ _Well._ ” Helena said after a long moment, “Only, I was wondering if you wouldn’t prefer to have some friends over?”

Sherlock cast his mother a quick incredulous glance. “No.”

“Darling, I worry about you. Mycroft has so many dear friends while you...”

“My classmates bore me. They’re stupid.” Sherlock said brusquely.

“Sherlock, that’s not a very nice thing to say.” his mother chided mildly.

“It’s true.”

“I’m sure there must be- ” 

“Not really. I already know all the interesting bits about them.” Sherlock interjected.

“ _Sherlock._ There’s-” Helena began.

“Done!” Sherlock called out, turning towards Mycroft expectantly.

Mycroft looked down at his watch. “Not your best time.” he said drily.

Sherlock scowled. “How much?” 

“Boys.” Helena interrupted. “I was saying: there’s more to people than meets the eye. And that goes for you too, Mycroft. I know you’ve been encouraging Sherlock to guess things about people by looking at them.”

“It’s not guessing!” Sherlock denied indignantly.

“It’s observation and deduction, Mummy.” Mycroft concurred. 

“Regardless. You shouldn’t get too carried away- it’s dangerous to make assumptions.”

Mycroft made an indeterminate noise that she chose to interpret as assent, while Sherlock pulled a face. 

“Well, if you change your mind, Sherlock.” she sighed.

After a short while she left, leaving Sherlock engrossed in another puzzle while Mycroft timed him.

“Father won’t be pleased either, Sherlock.” Mycroft said seriously, “You promised you’d try harder to make some friends.”

“I tried.” Sherlock muttered. “But they’re idiots.”

“Most people are.” Mycroft allowed. “Nonetheless, you’ll have to treat with them all your life.”

“I tried.” Sherlock repeated glumly.

“That doesn’t mean you should let them push you around, though.” Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock stared at his brother, startled. “How?” he asked.

“The scrapes on your palms and the state of your coat when you got home.” 

“Ah.”

“What did you tell him?” Mycroft asked.

“That it was good he no longer had to cheat on tests, now that he had a private Maths tutor.”

“I take it he was not alone when you had this conversation.”

“No. He said I was a liar and I told him what I’d observed, then Michael said I should mind my own business and I told him, of course he would say that, because he always cheats on our vocabulary quizzes.” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly.

He toyed with a puzzle piece nervously. “I wasn’t expecting them to push me, that’s why I fell.” 

Mycroft sighed. “You understand why they got angry?”

Sherlock shrugged. “All I said was the truth.”

“Most people don’t like hearing the truth.” Mycroft said, sounding older than his thirteen years.

“That’s stupid.” Sherlock asserted.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” his brother replied pensively. 

                                                                                                           ~ ~ ~

Mycroft pushed open his bedroom door with a quiet sigh; he toed off his shoes and hung his jacket methodically. Sherlock only stirred when the chair scraped across the floor; his hands curled and uncurled briefly on the bedspread before he opened his eyes, blinking blearily as he sat up. 

“Where were you?” he mumbled. 

“You tell me.” Mycroft prompted.

Sherlock sat up a little straighter and studied his brother intently. 

“Did you bring me any lemon cakes?” he asked at last.

Mycroft smiled slightly. “Yes. You can have some later.”

Sherlock beamed, although the effect was somewhat ruined by the paleness of his face and the redness of his eyes. 

“What did he take this time?” Mycroft asked gently. 

Sherlock’s face crumpled. 

“ _Ah._ ” Mycroft breathed. “You know to keep to yourself when he’s here.”

“I wasn’t in the way. “ Sherlock insisted, dragging his knuckles roughly over his eyes. “ _I wasn’t._ ”

“I believe you.” Mycroft assured him, “I’m aware Father can be… unreasonable, at times.”

“He _broke_ it, Mycroft!” Sherlock cried, choking up, “And it would have worked! You know it would have!”

“Of course.” he replied gravely.

“And Mummy said I was being silly.” Sherlock finished piteously.

Mycroft stared at his clasped hands, while Sherlock took deep, gulping breaths that weren’t quite sobs. 

“You’ll be able to fix it.” Mycroft responded at length. 

“He won’t give it back.” Sherlock sniffled.

“He will soon forget about it and then we’ll get it back.”

Sherlock frowned at the coverlet, bunching up the cloth between his fingers unconsciously.  

“ _No_ , Sherlock. You were lucky he didn’t catch you the first time.” 

“I wasn’t lucky; I was careful.” 

Mycroft drummed his fingers on his desk and considered his brother thoughtfully. “I’ll think up a new problem for you to solve.” he offered finally.

“You will?” Sherlock asked hopefully. “More difficult than the last one?”

“If you promise not to steal into Father’s study again.” Mycroft stressed.

“Alright.” Sherlock said after a long moment.

“ _Sherlock._ ” Mycroft reproached.

“He doesn’t notice things like we do.” Sherlock argued, “He won’t find out.”

“But I will.” 

Sherlock huffed, but relented. “I promise.” he muttered grudgingly. 

Mycroft nodded. “We have an agreement, then.”

Without further comment, he reached for his bag and pulled out his books. Sherlock sat unnaturally still while Mycroft selected a pen and set out some paper.

“Can I stay here with you?” Sherlock whispered eventually.

“There’s a book on Astronomy on the nightstand.” 

Mycroft had to fight the urge to grin when he caught his brother’s moue of displeasure out the corner of his eye.

“Aha!” Sherlock cried out gleefully a few minutes later when he discovered the collection of _Nature_ journals and Mycroft couldn't hold back a smile.

                                                                                                               ~ ~ ~

“What does this mean, for us?” Sherlock asked, picking at the scabs on his knees absently.

Mycroft shrugged, not looking up from the newspaper he’d been perusing.  “Not much, really.”

“Does it mean I can have my anatomy books back now?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

“Good.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft reprimanded lightly. “Remember, you’re supposed to be upset.”

“Hm.” Sherlock agreed, obviously distracted. “I need some hydrogen peroxide.” 

“Your father has passed away. Some... semblance... of emotion is mandatory.” Mycroft insisted, folding the newspaper and fixing a stern look on Sherlock.

“But you’re not upset.” Sherlock argued.

“No.” Mycroft admitted.

“Mummy thought you were, though, that’s why she gave you Father’s pocket watch.”

“Yes. Sometimes it is convenient to have people believe things that aren’t quite true, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, brow furrowed in obvious confusion. “Mycroft. I don’t know how to do that.”

Mycroft studied his brother thoughtfully for a moment. “I know.” he said quietly, “I’m trying to teach you.”

Sherlock couldn’t hold Mycroft’s earnest glance for more than a few seconds; he was unused to seeing so much emotion in his brother and it disconcerted him.

“Aunt Eveline was inexcusably cheerful, then.”

Mycroft smiled. “Indeed, what do you think is the reason for her reprehensible behaviour?”

“She kept looking at the paintings and she had the number of a company that specialises in fine art shipping in her purse. Father must have left her the gallery.”

“She certainly thinks so.” Mycroft hummed.

“Didn’t he?”

“I’m afraid Father didn’t approve of her marriage.”

“I never heard him mention her.”

“Precisely.”

“And the only picture of her in the house was taken before she was married.”

“Good.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. Most of the paintings aren’t originals.”

“True.” Mycroft said, sounding pleased. 

“Why do you have to leave?” Sherlock demanded suddenly. 

“You know the answer to that.” Mycroft replied, “Don’t ask pointless questions.”

“Mummy doesn’t want you to go either.” 

“Mummy understands that it will be useful in the furthering of my future career.”

“In _politics._ ” Sherlock sneered.

“We can’t all be pirates.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twisted downward; he took a shuddering breath. “What am I supposed to _do_? It will be so _boring._ ”

“I’m not leaving for some months yet, and when I do, I will write to you, and I’ll be back for the holidays.”

“That’s not enough!” Sherlock shouted, springing angrily to his feet.

“Don’t shout, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed in warning. “There are still guests in the house.”

“I don’t care!”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“I don’t care.” he repeated querulously. His teacup shattered upon impact with the wall. When Mycroft didn’t react, Sherlock swept the whole tea tray off the table, watching with satisfaction as the crockery smashed, scattering shards of porcelain across half the room. 

It was only when he moved towards the violoncello that Mycroft rose from the armchair to stop him.

“Don’t.” he said simply, a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I want to play.” Sherlock said petulantly, his voice shaking. 

“You can’t if you break it.” Mycroft said reasonably. “Sit down. I’ll teach you.”

When Sherlock was settled, Mycroft put the bow in his hand. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to slide it lightly over the strings, which hummed almost inaudibly. He moved his fingers carefully in the positions Mycroft instructed, angled his wrist and increased the pressure so that the strings thrummed; he fancied he could feel the vibration of the wood against his chest. 

“It’s too big.” he complained after a few minutes, voice still quivering with suppressed tears. 

“Hm. Perhaps the violin would suit you better?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes downcast.

“I’ll tell Mummy to find you a tutor.” Mycroft promised.

“She won’t want to. Not after last time.” Sherlock said miserably, his voice breaking into a sob.

“It’s been almost four years, Sherlock.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” Sherlock whimpered abruptly, clinging to Mycroft’s arm and nearly upsetting the cello.

“Come now. Mummy will be pleased that you want music lessons after all.” he said evasively. 

“ _Mycroft_.” Sherlock accused, sniffling.

“She will not be pleased about broken china, though.” Mycroft continued.

Sherlock released his arm and stood up, still snivelling. “Aunt Patrice means to get her a new set for her birthday.”

“How fortuitous.” 

When Sherlock made to move away, however, Mycroft suddenly put an arm around him and pulled him close for an instant. When they broke apart he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Sherlock’s tearstained face gently.

“Now go and fetch someone to clean this up, will you?” he asked, his hand still warm on Sherlock’s shoulder.

                                                                                                               ~ ~ ~

Sherlock gave Mycroft a swift, searching look. “You cancelled your plans with Isabel. Why?”

Mycroft took a seat and studied Sherlock attentively. Sherlock fiddled with the violin and resolutely kept his eyes averted from his brother’s insistent gaze. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” Mycroft said finally. 

“You could’ve just sent a letter.” Sherlock said, his tone bitter. 

“I wanted to see you.”

“It’s been less than six months since you saw me.”

“Apparently you leave a lot out of your letters.” Mycroft explained with unconvincing nonchalance. 

“Nothing of importance.” Sherlock retorted.

“You should have said, Sherlock.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Sherlock hissed. The violin screeched as his bow slipped. 

“Mummy says you’ve taken to playing the violin at all hours of the night.”

“I can’t sleep.” he replied defensively.

“I take it that means nobody else should either.”

Sherlock deliberately turned his back on Mycroft and started playing so quickly the notes blurred into a furious, discordant sound.

“I see you’ve not lost your penchant for mistreating instruments.” Mycroft said, voice raised enough to be heard over the cacophony. Sherlock ignored him. 

Mycroft sighed. “I could use your assistance in a small matter.” 

The sound broke off abruptly as Sherlock spun in place to stare at his brother, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Really?” he asked dubiously.

“If convenient.” Mycroft replied blandly.

“Tell me.” Sherlock demanded.

“Certain correspondence has fallen into my possession. I would like you to look through it.”

Sherlock took the letters and scanned them cursorily. “What’s this?” he asked, his nose wrinkled, “Why should you care about the extramarital affairs of your professor?”

“Everything can be useful, Sherlock. Never dismiss _any_ information you can acquire.”

Sherlock threw the papers on the table in disgust. “Dull.” 

“There’s also more to those letters than it appears. I’m quite convinced this is not a matter of adultery but of something rather more sinister.”

“However, I don’t have as much time as I should like to investigate this.” Mycroft continued when Sherlock remained silent, wandering back to the music stand.

“I have nothing to go on but those letters.” he demurred.

“More than enough. Forty two handwritten messages that span over three months time.” Mycroft countered, “A veritable _wealth_ of information.”

Sherlock considered his brother carefully. “You’re humouring me.” he accused.

“Why should I do that?” Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said uncertainly. “I’m not very convenient.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Mycroft’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked curiously.

“You only care about people who are convenient to you.” Sherlock said bluntly. “You’re only seeing Isabel because her family is well connected and you don’t even like Thomas, but you put up with him because you want to meet his uncle.”

Mycroft propped his chin on his laced fingers and gazed at Sherlock contemplatively.

“People are... unreliable. Caring about anyone puts you in a position of vulnerability.” he explained slowly, “It is a weakness, and for success you need to have an advantage.”

There was a long silence.

“Is that what Mummy means when she says I should try to make friends?”

Mycroft smiled condescendingly. “I doubt it.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock whispered, “I don’t know if I’ll ever be useful to you.”

Mycroft led his clasped hands over his mouth and stared at Sherlock, looking slightly pained.

“You’re my brother. You don’t have to be convenient.” he said at last.

Sherlock’s face, which had been pinched with worry, relaxed into a smile. 

“I’ll do it. I’ll look into it. I suppose I’ll need something to do after class now that-”

“-that the chess club has been cancelled.” Mycroft finished for him.

“I didn’t know it would get him dismissed.” Sherlock clarified.

“I was not accusing you.” Mycroft said mildly, “It was a clever deduction, though you might have kept it to yourself.”

“I wasn’t aware that what he was doing was illegal.”

“You might like to read some books on Law. I’ll write you a list.”

“Alright.”

“You may like to read them during the night hours.” 

“ _Fine._ ” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

Mycroft sat back in the chair and settled comfortably. “Let me hear you play.”

“You heard me before.” Sherlock said, even as he reached for the violin.

Mycroft cast him an unamused glance. “Music this time, if it’s not too much trouble.”

* * *

  
_We are not only our brother's keeper; in countless large and small ways, we are our brother's maker._  
       -Bonaro Overstreet

**Author's Note:**

> Ties in with The Diagonal of the Square and Circling the Square stories.


End file.
